Friday, June 05, 2009

GRAND ARENA

And this is where this story begins and ends, at one point, one period, one breath, the end of one circle.

If there is the need to spell out people then she is her and he was him.

She was standing, her wet, soft skin numbly plastered against the cream tiles with sunflower watermarks sprinkled judiciously.

The shower of cold, merciless water struck her face with the force of life taking with it her transparent tears down the pit of her neck, her navel, etching fine black hair in downward streaks trickling down her thighs and calves like first springs on green mountain slopes, swirling around her feet to end as a whirlpool around the sieve of a drain hole, down the rusty pipes to ancient sewers, pouring into the river Bega flowing to join multiple rivers of tears at the Danube, only to lift up as vapours on a sunny afternoon caught by ice cold winds carried over a city red with soot, and history, to fall playfully as pure globules of water running up clean, steely pipes that trickles into a glass touched by his thirsty lips that sip her while he walks above the ancient sewers on grey concrete drenched with the rain stinging his eyes for the moment he looks up to the dirty white sky.

And this story began and ended, at one point, one period, one breath, the end of one circle.